ded, slowly; "rather, it's something
bigger. It's real religion."

"She needs it!"

"So do we all need it. I never knew how much until I was so old that I
had to weep for the barren years that might have bloomed." The priest
sighed as he hunted for his pipe.

The discussion ended for, to Mark's amazement, who should come up the
walk, veiled indeed, yet unmistakable, but the lady of the tree? Both
the priest and his visitor stood up. Mark reached for his hat and
gloves.

"Pardon me," said the lady, "for disturbing you, Monsignore."

Father Murray laughed and put up his hand. "Now, then--please, please."

"Well, _Father_, then. I like it better, anyway. I heard that poor
man is dead. Can I do anything?"

"I think you can," said Father Murray. "Will you step in?"

"No, Father; let me sit here." She looked at Mark, who stood waiting
to make his adieux. There was no mistaking the look, and the priest
understood at once. Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark. The lady
bowed and smiled. As she sat down, she raised her veil. Mark gazed
timidly into her face. Though she was seemingly unconscious of the
gaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voice
faltered for an instant as she addressed him.

"I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin," she
ventured, "but I have to thank you for a service."

Mark was scarcely listening. He was wondering if, underneath the
drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown
hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. He
was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It was
English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a
certain old park of boyhood's days.

"Do you know each other?" Father Murray was evidently still more
astonished.

"Not exactly," she said; "but Mr. Griffin has quick discernment, and is
unhesitating in action. He saw someone about to--make himself, let us
say, unpleasant--and he moved promptly. I am glad of this chance to
thank him."

Mark hoped she would not try. The heavily lashed eyes of violet blue,
under the graceful arches, were doing that splendidly. Mark was uneasy
under the gaze of them, but strangely glad. He wanted to go and yet to
stay; but he knew that it was proper to go.

Father Murray walked with him to the end of the lawn.

"There was nothing serious in the matter to which Miss Atheson
referred, Mr. Griffin?" he